


Birdsong

by A_Shields



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Dissociation, Homophobia, Kidnapping, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24288145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Shields/pseuds/A_Shields
Summary: After Ben's operation is postponed Callum has some time alone with his thoughts. Something he has always tried to avoid.
Relationships: Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell, Callum ''Halfway'' Highway/Chris Kennedy
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	Birdsong

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something random that came to me, I really feel like Callum should have a PTSD storyline but Eastenders seem to disagree :/ I wrote most of this at 2 am so apologies for any mistakes or if it's really bad. Sorry this isn't a happy one, but I started and got a bit carried away so here we go.
> 
> TW: panic attacks and some dissociation.
> 
> Stay safe and take care of yourselves.

Ben’s operation has been postponed.

Callum huffs out a sigh that sounds suspiciously like a laugh as he busies himself in the kitchen making a dinner that Ben will spend 10 minutes moving around his plate before dropping his fork, the resulting clatter resonating in Callum’s ears.

“I’m going to bed” Ben moves into the bedroom without another word, not allowing Callum to argue, telling him he needs to eat something to keep his strength up.

Its about an hour later when Callum is sat on the sofa, staring at the TV but not really seeing it. There’s an empty beer bottle on the table, a ring of condensation encircling it’s base where it meets the table. He’s flicking through the channels faster than he can register what’s on before he moves on to the next, his mind preoccupied, his thoughts consumed by Ben because when weren’t they?

Ben’s denial about his hearing loss, the harsh truth that this could be his reality for the rest of his life, warehouses and stashed money and whatever dodgy part in that Callum is increasingly convinced Phil and Ben are going to play.

His swirling thoughts have caused him to neglect the remote, and the TV has landed on an old film that Callum is still oblivious to. Oblivious until the sound of gunfire fills the apartment.

Callum’s head shoots up, his back straight and rigid, his entire body tense and ready to fight. With adrenaline coursing through his body he scrambles to his feet, sending the beer bottle flying to the floor with a clatter in the process. Eventually, his eyes find the TV, locating the source of the gunfire and he allows himself to relax a little. Eyes scrunched closed with a palm pushed to his forehead he tries to force the images from his mind and breathe in the smell of his flat, his home, not sand and smoke. Suddenly feeling exhausted, he turns off the TV and drops the remote onto the sofa behind him before making his way to his bedroom, trying and failing to ignore the faint ringing in his ears that belonged to a different time.

Callum’s phone screen blinds him with the knowledge that it’s 3:47 by the time he gives up on trying to sleep. Or at least the weird state he’s been in that’s halfway between sleeping and waking but he’s kept with it by telling himself he’s still getting some rest and that has to be better than nothing, right?

The truth is is that Callum hasn’t been able to sleep for a long time now, not since the warehouse and Keanu or the boat accident, Dennis’s death and Ben becoming deaf. He’s not sure which of them caused his sleepless nights, it all happened at once. Every aspect of Callum’s life changed in what felt like an instant and he didn't even get a ticket to the show.

But no, it wasn’t that night. Not really. His mind runs away from him; sprinting towards the place he never allows himself to go.

It wasn’t that, it wasn’t any of that. Callum hadn’t slept properly since Ben told him he didn’t love him, since he held Ben’s deadweight body as blood poured out of his chest on the floor of the Vic. Since he first saw Chris’ smile, bright and vibrant and _alive_. Not since he found out Chris was dead, knowing that if he hadn’t left the Army that Chris would still be alive. Callum hadn’t slept properly since he was nine years old and he got butterflies on his stomach when a boy in his class looked at him for too long. Since he heard his dad shouting abuse at a gay couple on a rare day trip to the seaside, Stuart sniggering alongside him. Callum hadn’t slept properly since he watched his mum walk out the door for the last time, leaving him behind with the monster he called his dad.

His chest is tight. Not the moderate pull that settled there a few weeks ago and stayed so that it now feels normal, so normal that Callum would almost feel stripped bare without it at this point. But _tight. Constricted._ Like soon Callum won’t be able to _breathe._

_Breathe._

And he does. It buys him a few seconds at least, but then his eyes settle in the dark on his wardrobe door, on the exact spot that if he had x-ray vision he would be staring at the box of Chris’s letters.

_Chris._

It’s back before he can be relived it was gone. His chest tightening, his breath hitching before picking up, tension settling in his ankles making him want to run and never stop. He can feel it creeping in, but it’s not creeping, its walking, running, sprinting, flying down the M25 at 100 miles an hour until...

“FUCK!”

In his haste to get to the bathroom, to be anywhere but _here_ doing _this,_ he kicked the bedside table, sending shooting pains through his toe and foot.

“Sorry Ben I-“ but Ben hadn’t heard his apology, or the commotion that preceded it. He was still fast asleep blissfully unaware of both Callum’s injury and his state of mind.

“Ben?” Callum repeated, knowing that it was futile. “Ben!” he was getting louder, voice shaking and strained as he was losing what little grip he had left.

“Ben! BEN!”

Nothing.

Tears sting his eyes before they spill over, the dam finally breaking.

He was now in the throes of it, somehow in the bathroom with no recollection of his feet carrying him there, completely powerless to the horrors his brain was about to put him through. Images of sand and flames, sounds of blood curdling screams and anguished pleads for loved ones to appear safe and unharmed, the smell of smoke and gunpowder, of singed hair and burning flesh. Motherless children, childless mothers.

Distant sounds of him calling for Ben, Ben Ben.

But he can’t hear him, it’s too late, the car comes. It hits him. He’s gone. Keanu’s face, Chris’ smile. Jonno’s fist. His mother’s screams. His screams. Blood spattered walls. Flowers, coffins, black suits and tissues, flowers. Muffled cries and eulogies. Flowers. Flowers. Flowers. Nothing.

His breaths gradually become deeper, more level, his vision un-blurs and now only a slight tremor remains in his hands which only minutes ago were shaking violently. He rises slowly, his body stiff and aching from being balled up on the floor, from being so tense and rigid and filled with adrenaline he thought he might burst. His ribs are sore from his erratic breathing and for a split second he’s taken back to the warehouse, to ice cold chains and red-hot fists.

_No._

Callum braces himself on the sink and forces those memories out of his mind. When he looks in the mirror he wants to not recognise the man staring back at him with bloodshot eyes and puffy cheeks that are still carrying a flush and a network of dried tear tracks so intricate and extensive they could put the London tube map to shame. His hair flat and sticking slightly to his forehead, his lips bitten to the point that small dots of blood have broken through.

Callum wants so badly to not recognise this man, but he does. He’s seen him so many times before, and each time he’s prayed he won’t see him again. He stays there, staring at this reflection of a man that is _not_ Callum for a long time. A familiar stranger.

By the time he has steadied himself, splashed cold water on his face and is starting to connect the image he sees in the mirror with the Callum Highway he knows, he _is_ , the morning light is breaking through the window. Fresh and new and full of possibility.

He returns to his bed and climbs in, moving slowly, exhausted and drained. The short walk takes so much effort but he’s also not aware he’s moving at all. He places an instinctive hand on Ben’s waist, moving closer to smell the remnants of his aftershave on his neck, and he finally feels grounded. He breathes in deeper than he has all night and closes his eyes, letting the sound of early morning birdsong lull him to sleep ready to face another day. A day that is fresh and new and full of Callum pretending he’s ok when he’s barely holding on.


End file.
